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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29291316">Kept in Fear of Gods</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Phosphors'>Phosphors (Bidawee)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Gore, Civil War, Falling In Love, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, Light Angst, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Morally Ambiguous Character, No Sex, Unresolved Emotional Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:07:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,473</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29291316</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Phosphors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>George saves the life of a revolutionary in an act of impulse. It follows him home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>GeorgeNotFound/Wilbur Soot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>153</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Kept in Fear of Gods</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It's. Done.</p><p>I regret to say this story has nothing to do with the SMP! I didn’t officially name the nation/city they’re in, so it can be L’Manburg or some British town, whatever you prefer. Regardless, the corrupt officials have a bit of a mutiny on their hands. That’s where Wilbur comes in. A lot of people want to stay out of it. That’s where George comes in. Conflict ensues. I didn’t go too far on the politics of it or whether the conflict is contained with this one town or nation-wide, but it’s not important to the story. George is already a bit unreliable to begin with.</p><p>I just realized I technically reused the conflict of my last fic. Dang it. Oh well. George’s apathy is a bit too easy to run away with, eh? Regardless, I hope you enjoy it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He’s a bloody mess when George finds him, a miserable heap of flesh that dragged himself around the corner of a building and into an alley, as evidenced by the smear of red that contrives around street lamps and bins. He’s half-expecting to find a dead animal at the end of it, and under the ratty coat, the dirt, and the grime, he’d be forgiven for assuming as such. What he actually finds is a man clinging to life, one hand forced up his shirt to press in at his breast bone, the other around the source of the bleeding: his lower leg. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George approaches him carefully, his bag of essentials hooked over one shoulder to free up the use of both hands. It seems this one is yet another unlucky victim of the fight these two powers have brought to them. He won’t even be today’s first or last body as more and more innocents fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every time he swallows, it’s as if copper is being tipped down the back of his throat. He’s not sure if anything can be done for the man in this state, and he told himself a long time ago that he would stop getting involved. No one could blame him for walking away, even if the bloody shoe prints would follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one but himself, he realizes. His shoulders slump.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man comes to just as George’s about to cut through his pants. The first thing he sees is George with a knife in hand, just above his mangled mess of a lower half. He writhes, his back striking against the wall as he tries to get away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to hurt you,” George promises in a frantic hurry. “You’re safe!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looks on in disbelief. Eyes rimmed with panic--alert with the knowledge of just how easy it’d be to press the dull blade in and finish what someone else had started--he watches George make an improvised tourniquet with the bottom material of the pants that he cut off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I bring you home with me? I can treat you better there,” George asks, running on nothing but instinct and the crumbs of that morning’s toast. His success so far has been surprising; under any other circumstances, he wouldn’t be much use at all. His mother always told him that his hands shook too much to stitch, even if she never intended it in the context of suturing wounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not going to ask what happened?” The man finds his voice, aged ten years because of his derelict state. It’s about as smooth as the gravel they pave the roads with now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t stick my nose into other people’s business,” George replies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never going to be able to clean the blood from his hands after this. It’s crusting under his nails, where scrubbing won’t be able to reach it. It draws arteries in the lines of his palms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man lies back down, pushing the hair out of his eyes with a shaky hand. He must be in horrible pain; it’s hard to imagine how anyone could keep their composure with blood pumping out of their leg. He’s lucky he’s wearing dark clothes, or the extent of the bleeding would be much more apparent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that a yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s lip twitches. “What’s your name?” he asks. One of his hands overlaps the other, resting on his chest. His skin is clammy and pale, like something fished out of the ocean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“George.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, George.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The towel underneath the man leaves almost nothing up to the imagination; it’s mopped up enough blood to inherit its dark colour. Some of it has transferred to the couch underneath, which has more in common with a hospital gurney now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George is running low on bandages. The spool is thin enough that he can see the brown cardboard of the inner tube through the fabric. It was the only thing he had in his bathroom’s medicine cabinet. The only other place he could think of having medicinal stores would be the kit up in the attic, but even that is a very big if.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How does that feel?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It hurts, just not as much as before,” the man replies. He’s just come back from the dead, dragged the remaining ten minutes down the road by the arms because his legs gave out. He probably lost more blood then than he ever did in that alley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George sits back on his legs, looking down at his work. “I don’t know how much more I can do,” he tells him, hoping it doesn’t sound too remorseful. His back aches, and he feels defeated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you tell me your name now?” He’s worked on him enough that he’s no longer a face to forget in a crowd of thousands. If he goes in the night, George needs something to mark the grave with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get it. Clues point to this man being on the opposite side of the war. George doesn’t need to see a jacket to know he doesn’t belong--doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to belong--and that’s something worth dying for. A lot of people would put that to the test and shoot him between the eyes. If they knew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wilbur,” the man says to him with no uncertainty. If it’s a fake name, he’d never know. He doesn’t push it, and accepts the offering with a curt nod.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur sleeps the remainder of the day, breathing so quiet that George is afraid he’s succumbed to his injuries while unconscious. Frankly, it’s a miracle his patch-job did anything at all. Wilbur needs professional help if he wants to avoid it escalating into something much worse. He needs the care only a clinic can give.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning, he tells Wilbur as such. He intersperses it in conversation as he dabs at Wilbur’s brow with a damp towel, trying to clear up the condensation that’s making the other man look so sickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It makes Wilbur’s head bob with laughter. “They won’t take me there,” he says, and leaves it at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It confirms everything George needs to know about him. If word gets out about this, it could be catastrophic. As if it wasn’t incriminating enough to have his neighbours watch them stagger home. Living on the edge of the city won’t do them any favours, not when current tensions run hotter than the pavement in the summer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George wrings the additional moisture out of the towel, disappearing into the bathroom to dump the bowl of water in the sink. The cabinet door is still open from the last time he was in there, revealing an almost-bare interior with nothing more than a squeezed toothpaste tube and a pill bottle of ibuprofen that rattles when he shuts the door. The mirror on the other side shows him the bloodless, sunken face of a man that doesn’t know what he’s doing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If anyone asks, Wilbur is a passerby. He’s had plenty of those, all with their own skeletons in the closet. No one could blame him for trying to do the right thing, even if it involves feigning ignorance.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur keeps on surviving, saying nothing to finance who he is or where he came from. At least he’s a bit more stable than before, able to stand up and move between rooms by leaning on the walls. He accepts George’s invitation to move to the second bedroom upstairs, which has an actual mattress for him to recline on instead of lumpy couch cushions that have half of their stuffing pressed out. All he needs is George’s help getting up there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George acts as his leg while it’s healing, taking Wilbur’s arm around his shoulder and pushing him up. Bent over and limping, Wilbur is about the same height as him. He would crumble with one kick to the shins, which feels like it would be an inappropriate thought to have if it wasn’t so reassuring. He’s still not yet certain of the threat level his guest poses and whether it’s worth his time to secure some kind of weapon to his side so he’s never left defenceless. Wilbur gets a lot of weird looks from him as he figures it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Wilbur’s condition improving, George can spend more time outside of his room without fear of returning to see a corpse in his place. Not that he makes productive use of the time. Most of it is spent worrying over trivial things, feeling like a stranger in his own house. Feeding two mouths has put a drain on his supplies. Rationing doesn’t stop the shelves from bleeding dry, and the effects mirror in himself as he wastes away. It’s something he can’t put off for much longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as they’re nearing empty, he laces his boots up as he readies to go into town. Even though he longs to spend time out of the house, it’s a risk he can’t take. He never expected to be in a position where he would miss walking to work each day, being able to spend time around people and kill the hours doing something he was good at. All of that unused knowledge is just rotting in his brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the way out, he makes a quick stop at the guest bedroom. One look at George in the door and Wilbur sits up straighter, eyeing his change in clothes with questioning skepticism. It’s still got some of his blood on it from the last time George left the house, running up the sleeve like an unspooled thread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going into town. Need anything?” George asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Into town? There’s almost nothing left of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” He pinches the strap on his gloves and pulls them down. “Is that a no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where in particular?” He looks uncomfortably stiff: the skin of his hands is pulled taut so that the bones running up to his knuckles poke out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Down by the quarry. I’m not going deep into it, if that’s what you’re asking.” Only an idiot would do that. The convenience is not worth the risk. He hopes that kind of ignorance is not something Wilbur sees in him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He relaxes. “Oh, good. No, I don’t need anything, thanks. Be careful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pause that follows makes it seem like he has more to say, but nothing comes out. In the interest of not making it awkward, George leaves without another word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his walk, he gives himself a wide circumference around the city. Something about Wilbur’s body language was a warning, and he adheres to its advice.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Word travels about the newest bombings and what few pedestrians walk the sidewalks of their street thin into nothing; everyone is too scared to leave their house, let alone walk to the central districts. George doesn’t bring any news of it back to his house. Wilbur doesn’t ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A neighbour stops by when he’s out reinforcing the front fence, the overgrown grass tangling around his feet. He’s a much older fellow, about the age of his George’s father and of about the same temperament.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to that uh, visitor of yours?” he asks George, immediately after introductions are finished. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course he would come here, fishing for trouble. George has known him for many years, and for that reason would never trust him with the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Old family friend. Patched him up and sent him on his way.” He can’t make eye-contact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looked pretty bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably felt worse, but he insisted on leaving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Most people are getting out. But where’re you gonna go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hear there’s places up the river.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forces a wiry laugh. “Couldn’t do it. Leaving means they win. Did you hear what they did to the old office park?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half of the street was reduced to rubble apparently. His place of employment was one of the casualties (hearing that didn’t have the emotional impact he thought it would). It’s fear-mongering at its basics, and George doesn’t care to hear it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He listens to him long enough for him to go away, then double locks the front door on the way back in.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers why he retreated into himself. The latch on the fence remains on, all doors shut and blinds drawn as his last line of defence. It’s not the revolutionists he’s worried about--none of them would bother coming out this far--but the suspicion of those he knows would report him if they knew anything. They’re the ones that are going to pull him out kicking and screaming because they saw a second person standing in the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur has nothing to say about George’s paranoia. He’s been a man of few words, even though it always looks like he has a thousand more things to say. He never asks for more than he is given. Even if he’d much rather be up and about, he rests when George asks him to. All food is eaten without complaint. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something about him that twists George’s gut into a spiral. His eyes watch him with surgical precision, as if George is a brain-teaser he has yet to solve. George gets it; he’s playing it safe. Being cautious of people is what has kept him alive up to this point. But it’s not like he’s going to cough Wilbur up to the authorities after spending all of this time helping him recover. Even if he hasn’t earned Wilbur’s trust, his confidence should be enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur is much more of a danger for George. Not just because he’s sticking his neck out for him, but because he knows almost nothing about him. On good days, he might find out that Wilbur is a morning person. Or that he manages to make the spare clothes from the attic look small. The day he brought the maps out for Wilbur to look at has yet to be beat; even if he’s never left this city all his life, Wilbur’s got so much knowledge about places around the world that it feels like he’s somewhere that isn’t this purgatory when he listens to him talk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of what he finds out is related to his political affiliation. It seems that Wilbur wants it to remain that way. Plausible deniability, and all that.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>George never had any reason to touch his store of coffee ground up until now. His sister always drank the stuff, but he couldn’t stomach it. Too bitter-tasting, even with cream and sugar. Even now, the smell of it makes him queasy. But it brings Wilbur a bit of comfort, so it’s become automatic to put a pot on when he wakes up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur is always downstairs before him, peaking out of the slit in the curtains at the bleak outdoors. He can’t imagine there’s much worth seeing: there’s nothing but brick and stone as far as the eye can see. Maybe on a particularly exciting day, the lines connecting the electrical poles might swing in the wind. The puffs of chimney fumes from the bakery might remind him of battle smoke. Whatever he sees, he watches it with an apt eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George has already warned him about standing where other people can see him, so he doesn’t do it again. He hands Wilbur a hot mug and stands back to watch him. He’s the only person George knows that can stomach drinking it black without his whole face scrunching up on the first sip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s your leg?” he asks. It’s the only topic of conversation he can always fall back on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur tests his weight on it. “Better. Still hurts like a bitch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do I need a doctor when I got you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George’s lips stretch thin. Sure, Wilbur is alive, but that doesn’t mean it won’t become a bigger problem than it is. George’s training comes from a few first aid manuals that were complementary to his supplies. It can’t replicate the care that Wilbur desperately needs from a professional.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unnerved by his silence, Wilbur turns to him. “I didn’t mean that sound selfish; I really appreciate your hospitality. Not many people help complete strangers these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would have died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George laughs uncomfortably. “Is death not a bad thing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think a lot of people would have preferred it if I died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he trails off. “I don’t want you to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur looks down at the cup in his hands, fingers overlapping because of how small it is. “Even if it would fix everything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want me to say? I don’t think you’re a bad person.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he is. Maybe he’s doing the worst possible thing here. Those concepts are all too familiar to him; he hasn’t exactly had an easy sleep since doing this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but at least you’re a good one,” Wilbur responds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks. No one’s said anything like that to him, ever. He doesn’t know what to do with such praise. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The longer they go into Wilbur’s recovery, the more he opens up. It’s to be expected: they only have each other for company. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been so long since the rooms in his house haven’t been dense with dead air. Even if their longer conversations are prompted by George trying to smear salve on the cuts that Wilbur can’t reach, it’s a form of human connection. There’s a giant hole in his life and he knows it’s obvious because of the ghosts in the house; there’s laughter from the kitchen that leads back to the empty muffin trays in the cupboard and polaroids from his childhood that display on the few picture frames he keeps around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur eventually asks, “Do you have family?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been courteous not to bring it up until that point, and it only happens because the few channels they get on the television that aren’t documenting the collateral damage are not worth their time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do, but they’re way out in the middle of nowhere. Practically another city away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So at least they’re safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t know. There isn’t a safe place left in the whole country.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not that it was any different before.” Wilbur shakes his head. “This place has always been a fucking mess of corruption.” It’s the first time George can hear the hackles rising in his voice, and he’s reminded that Wilbur is not his friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What else can he say? That he prefers when he didn’t have to fear for his life every day? “Yeah, well…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So that leaves you here alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promised my dad I’d look after the place. I still had to work in the city, but the plan was always that they would come back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that still the case?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No idea. Everything got lost in the chaos. The lines are always tied up, so I don’t hear from them often. I just keep photos around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Photos?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. I told my mother I’d hold onto one of her, so she’d always be with me. That was our thing.” He thinks back to his room and the frames full of images, some fitted and others hung loose. He feels the veins in his wrist squeeze with grief. “I miss her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to hear that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know they’re probably doing alright. It just gets lonely sometimes. If I knew it would get this bad, I would have left when I had the chance. Now it’s almost impossible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossible</span>
  </em>
  <span> impossible, you just need to know the right people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean the illegal kind?” He can’t keep the judgement out of his voice, which is his first mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur chuckles to himself, uncrossing his legs. “Sorry to say it, but you’re helping me. By all accounts, that makes you illegal too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A nauseating thought, and one that sits ill with him like he’s consumed spoiled food. There’s a reason he doesn’t spar with words. Even if resistance fighters weren’t snake charmers, he would lose to their persuasion and deep cuts. He doesn’t like that Wilbur can shine a light on the parts of him he tries to stuff under the bed.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Keeping his distance doesn’t last long. Winning out over his moral stance is the desire to finish what he started, which places him in the upstairs bathroom, armed with the last of the bandages and his teeth pressed together to keep himself from being sick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur probably doesn’t need his help changing the dressings anymore, but he doesn’t say anything to stop George. He’s ready for him with one leg propped up on the edge of the bath, sweats rolled up to his mid-thigh. George kneels beside him with a basin, a washcloth, and antibiotic ointment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By now, he knows Wilbur’s tolerance level. He can read the wrinkles on his face to know if he’s wrapping them too tight (which he seldom does anymore). All the practice he’s had means it only takes a few minutes to have everything up to standard, the used bandages discarded in the wastebasket as a heap. He’s hopeful that all of this work has been worth it: none of the coverings come away red these days. Even if it's more to keep bacteria out, it’s reassuring to see. It gives him hope that he’ll make a full recovery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves Wilbur to pull his pant leg down, giving him the space to do what he needs to as he washes his hands with soap and water. He rubs his right fingers back and forth on the palm of his left until there’s nothing dark under the nail or around the cuticle. He flips his hand around to double-check, finding it satisfactory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he turns back, Wilbur is staring at him. His hands are looped around both bent knees, hugging them to his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just don’t strike me as the altruistic type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George shrugs. “People can be deceiving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you doing this? Out of the kindness of your heart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. I’m not going to hold it against you or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Up until now, Wilbur hasn’t had much of a choice. His injury made it so. He may not be fully healed now, but it’s not like he’s bed-ridden either. It’s on him now whether he stays or goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just asking. Are you making up for something? Or someone? Did I know you a long time ago?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No and no. I did it ‘cause I wanted to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you regret it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but if you’re not doing it for any reason, then it’s a bit of an odd thing to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George braces himself against the countertop with both hands. “Why am I on trial here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I don’t understand you,” he says, blunt as ever. “What compels someone to do this? Are you secretly on our side or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not on anyone’s side.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts. “Figures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean? You want me to be sympathetic to your cause? I might never see my family again because of you. How many people have to die before you stop?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re acting like it was so much better before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People weren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>dying</span>
  </em>
  <span> before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur shakes his head. “I don’t get it. You’re not stupid. You knew what was going on. It just wasn’t happening to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this your way of thanking me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just want to know why. I was convinced people like you stopped existing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because of where I stand? Or because I helped you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems even Wilbur doesn’t know. He stretches his legs out. The length of them lets his toes touch the wall. He’s resolute to not look at him out of frustration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George relaxes his grip on the counter’s edge. “You can stay as long as you need to, just don’t bring the fight back to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He means the actual fight, but if Wilbur interprets it to mean no more bickering over his personal choices, that works too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur sighs defeatedly. “Sure.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It becomes more and more apparent that he’s got a rebel in the house, and clamping down on the input of news is his only way of making sure every conversation doesn’t devolve into argument. Very rarely is it ever targeted at George. He’s someone with no outlet and a lot of things to say, and it just so happens that George is the only person to unload on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, it’s unpleasant to listen to and he wants no part of it. Voicing that always makes Wilbur’s hand curl into his knee, as if George is unfinished business that he has to keep working on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they’re not talking about that, Wilbur is fine. He earns his place by helping out, doing chores that George procrastinates on and teaching him card games to pass the time. He knows all of the rules by heart--unless he’s making them up. Could very well be, seeing as how he wins almost every round. The few times George wins a hand of euchre feels like Wilbur is pitying him, but the man says nothing to confirm or deny it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing he can’t do is leave. Too big of a risk. George doesn’t need to say it and Wilbur doesn’t need to ask. That door is a one-way road. If he steps foot outside, he has to commit to it and go back to wherever he’s set up camp. Where that is, George doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know. If word gets out about this and they set him up in an interrogation room, then at least he won’t have to lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t trade in rebel secrets. He has enough care for himself and for Wilbur, and that’s it. The nation they’re in, or the nation Wilbur wants it to be, is not of his concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur still ends up tracking some of it in. It turns up when George has to leave the house and comes around to make a list of supplies, as some stark reminder that the house is a voluntary prison and there’s life outside of the walls where they’ve made theirs. Wilbur had allegiances before this, and some part of George is touched to see him betray them for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t go by the canal. Last I remember, they were doing stuff there,” Wilbur tells him. That day, he’s come as close to the door as George will let him, looking pale at the thought of him leaving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anywhere else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think lightning strikes the same spot twice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing deep into the financial district then. “‘Kay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious, don’t take stupid risks. If you see weird shit, keep walking. If someone tries to stop you, ignore them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wilbur, I’ll be fine. And if I’m not, at least you get whatever’s left in the fridge all to yourself,” he says dryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s more in line with Wilbur’s sense of humour, so he doesn’t know why it makes the other stiffen until his eyes bulge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say things like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sounds like he wants George to make a vow. He’s been here long enough to know that won’t happen.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if he could convert Wilbur just by showing him how good life is when he isn’t pushing back against the status quo. It certainly seems like he enjoys the benefits of staying dry under a consistent roof and not having to dodge the police and their torches at every turn. He doesn’t doubt that Wilbur is committed to his objective, but he’s simultaneously not in any hurry to get back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George won’t be the reason he undergoes a morality crisis, and he keeps his mouth shut. It’s not something for him to use; it would make him no better than the people they criticize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur keeps him on his toes, giving him a reason to get dressed and keep on keeping on until the world around them improves. Retaliation from the government has contributed to the apocalyptic scene outside of his window, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before the destruction creeps up to his doorstep. He cherishes what they have, for being a mockery of what life might have been had the world been on pause for just a few years longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the light of the afternoon dims, he gives Wilbur a potato peeler. It would be a big show of trust if he wasn’t already leaving his knife drawer unlocked every night. Wilbur’s fingers are long and dexterous, and he’s able to remove the skin in a single peel that coils around like a spring. It’s something for them to chuckle over as George brings the water to a boil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While George is at the stove, Wilbur has made himself comfortable lounging back on one of the dining room chairs. He’s straddling the bowl he’s depositing the skins into. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we only doing three of these?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Unless you can eat more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better we save them. For later.” He flicks away a potato eye, clearly much more focused on the task at hand. George is staring down at the bubbles bursting to the surface, trying to figure out why him saying that feels so weird. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is it the fact that they’re a plural now, or that Wilbur is thinking ahead as if it’s going to stay like this? He knows it’s not supposed to be an admission of surrender, but it sure feels like it. It’s what his subconscious would like to believe, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure you’re fine with me boiling them? I know that takes out most of the flavour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Makes no difference to me. As long as you’re not skewering them over an open flame until they’re charcoal, I’ll eat it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has that happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah. You’d be surprised what the lads get up to when they’re trying to be creative with their cooking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The intimacy that he gilds his words with is evidence of a true friendship, one that George isn’t a part of and can’t relate to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are any of them looking for you?” George asks. He pretends to be busy stirring the water, even if there’s nothing in it but salt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, of course. They probably think I’m dead or something.” He sobers up, finishing the last potato and placing it aside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He immediately knows he’s hit a sore spot, and all he can think of doing is saying something to fix it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need me to pass a letter on or anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“George.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> He turns back to see Wilbur’s face stretched out in hyperbolic surprise. “Is this you changing sides?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I just want to do something nice for you.” Because Wilbur should be able to read something that isn’t the dusty old hardcovers from the trunks upstairs. Hope is in such short supply these days and George is willing to bend the rules he’s laid for himself if it means he can give him some.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well thanks, but even if you could find someone to pass it on to, they wouldn’t trust you. I’ll just have to tell them in person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George adjusts the burner's heat before it boils over. “Do you plan on leaving soon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not. You’ve stayed this long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to be a burden.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not. You’re good company. Better than most at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you helped others?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People like me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyone that needed a place to rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unexpectedly, Wilbur sours with displeasure. “So you’re really that passive. I thought you were exaggerating.” The corners of his lips lift into a sneer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I was passive, I wouldn’t have helped you.” He sucks his cheeks in. “Besides, I have no way of knowing. I didn’t ask them who they were. And why do you care who I help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you don’t care, and you’ve never had to. I don’t care if it’s the enemy’s, just pick a side. At least it shows you believe in something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s enough,” George warns him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you going to do when they ransack the place? Where are you gonna go then, or are you going to fall to your knees and give up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promised my father I’d stay here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one would blame you for breaking that promise. Most of them are empty these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where would I go? There’s nowhere better. Who’s to say all of this doesn’t end tomorrow and we wake up on the better side of it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that simple.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it isn’t,” he agrees with a sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur takes a second to manicure his face into something much nicer. George almost doesn’t want to hear what he’s thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could come live with me. It’s not as bad as they say it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George holds his free hand up. “I don’t want to hear it.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>For your own safety,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he wants to say. He’s got loose lips; he can’t guarantee it will be kept a secret if it’s beaten out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No--listen to me. We’re self-sufficient. If at the end of this there’s nothing left--and it might come to that--then I could get you out of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d rather burn the whole place down than admit that maybe you’re taking this too far? Do you even hear yourself? How could some hideaway be safer than here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not listening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> not listening. I’m not turning you in, isn’t that enough? Can’t we just agree to disagree?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur doesn’t say anything else. Something behind his eyes has clicked. He’s solved the mystery that he’s been pouring his heart out over for the past month. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George wouldn’t be surprised if he takes the answer and runs with it.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur is still there a few hours later, when the night has drawn everything else to a close. Curfew has cut back on noise pollution, making the living room’s television feel especially loud. The volume metre is down to single digits and still feels noisy enough to be heard down the street. It would be much more uncomfortable to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> have it on, which is the only reason he goes through the trouble. Usually, Wilbur would be elbow deep into the conversation with him by now. He intended for the late night emergency broadcast to be a substitute, though it in no way compares. He’s not invested in any of it, fatigued by images so similar that he swears he could’ve seen them months ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur shows up later than usual, taking his usual seat next to him on the couch. George is embarrassed that he can’t wait more than a few moments before he starts blubbering, knowing full well the absence is to blame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” George tells him, hands folded together where Wilbur can’t see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not trying to do the right thing. I’m just doing what I’d want others to do for me. I know that might make me a bad person to a lot of people, yourself included.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trying to please everyone pleases no one,” Wilbur contributes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just a question of who gets to me first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur extends his arm along the back of the couch, grabbing George’s far shoulder and pulling him closer until they’re flush. It’s human contact not initiated by the smell of iron and bloodied fingers, while they’re sorting the laundry to find the matching socks, or because Wilbur needs to put a hand on his waist to step behind him in their shoebox kitchen. Wilbur wants him to be there with him and he’s using this gesture to say it. George didn’t know how badly he needed to hear it until he feels his eyes become glassy with emotion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None of us are ever going to hurt you, I promise. I’ll stand in the door if I have to,” Wilbur says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” George whispers. He relishes in what Wilbur gives him, expecting him to pull away at any moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s happy that Wilbur didn’t take the excuse to skip town, even if he wouldn’t blame him for it. He likes knowing he’s worth staying for.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He catches Wilbur in his bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leading up to it, he was waking up from an afternoon nap on the living room couch. These days, he’s always dizzy with hunger. The only relief comes from sleep--when he manages to submerge himself in it. There’s usually a lot of tossing and turning involved, trying to quiet the thoughts in his mind that populate with worries that they’re running out of supplies and food and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span> and something bad is coming that’s going to throw him off the deep end with the weight of disappointing his loved ones tied around his waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur had his nose stuck in a book when he first laid down, and calling out his name gets no response. When he’s not found in the kitchen nor in any of the lower room floors, he starts upstairs to the guest bedroom to ask if he would be down to do something more interactive. Maybe they can disassemble and redo the puzzle in the corner by the floor vent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Movement in </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> room makes him stop. It’s Wilbur, his body turned in a way that makes it so that George can’t see what he was looking at. It’s the first time George has seen him in there, and the intrusion on his privacy twangs the wrong way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wilbur?” he says, hoping to alert him to his presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur’s body does not jerk with surprise. The most he does is drop his arm, both hands concealed in his pockets. The outline of his clenched fists bulges out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you feeling?” Wilbur asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. Can I help you find something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just admiring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone else might try to poke holes in the tension. They might crack a joke about how skinny George looked back then, even on a much better diet than he is now. They might look at the old family portraits and empathize, talk about how their bedrooms are all filled with memories of an old, better life. One they wish they could all go back to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur leaves, having done none of that. George steps aside to let him pass and shudders when their shoulders brush with more than the cold air that exits with him. The loud thumps tell him that Wilbur has descended back down the stairs, giving him the room he needs to breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The portraits of his parents and his sister are in their proper places. The clothes in the drawers are undisturbed. Yet, he can’t shake the feeling that something has gone missing. He turns the place inside-out trying to find it. Articles of clothing are discarded in piles onto the floor, his wallet cleared out of its contents. All he gets is a huge mess that takes about half an hour to clean up. Nothing turns up, or appears to be missing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of them bring it up over dinner. Whatever Wilbur has on him, it’s small enough to hide in a pocket. So close, yet too far for George to take back without it becoming a whole confrontation, fit with accusations for a crime he can’t even prove Wilbur committed in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves it be.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>They can no longer get fresh food, and he quickly loses his appetite after circling through the same few options. Households are limited to the bare minimum of rations to support the family and legally, George lives alone. What meagre pickings he does get have to be divided into two. More often than not, when Wilbur isn’t looking, they’re divided once more. He needs his strength more than George does, especially because he’s complaining about his leg again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That day, Wilbur is by the window, as usual, while George attends to his morning coffee. He’s just about finished stirring it when he’s knocked off balance, sent crashing into the cabinet. A loud bang sounds from outside and it feels like the house’s foundation shifts. His hip throbs with pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that?” he calls out, but is too perturbed to wait for Wilbur’s response. He bounds to the front of the house, pulling on Wilbur’s shoulder to see out the window, fogged from his breath and streaked on the outside with pellets of rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are thick plumes of black smoke billowing out from an impact sight in the far distance. The neighbouring street houses keep them from seeing what’s probably the crater pummeled into the ground, and he can’t decide if he’s grateful or not for it. Seeing the beloved city end up in carnage never stops hurting. It feels like it shrinks more in square footage by the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to yank the curtains shut. “We shouldn’t be looking at this,” he mutters. His whole body has plunged in temperature, the apprehensive sweat chilling him to the bone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur doesn’t look too bothered. He stares right through the curtains; he can probably see through them, they’re so flimsy. George tries to pull on his arm, but he’s rooted in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being ignored doesn’t sit well with him. The elephant in the room is so big that it’s pushing him out of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you know this was going to happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Wilbur murmurs, still not giving him the decency of eye contact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do we need to evacuate?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hearing his panic finally makes Wilbur stop focusing on the destruction. George feels arms envelop him and stops everything, arms held in mid-air. He has good reason to be afraid, when the look in Wilbur’s eyes was brighter than a New Year’s sparkler. He can’t see them now that he’s pressed into his chest, and he wonders if that’s on purpose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s wait and see,” Wilbur says a minute too late. By then, sirens are responding. He wonders if that faint ringing in his head could be the screams of those caught outside, made shrill by their injuries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He excuses himself to the bathroom and presses his ears flat to his head with both hands. His nails claw into his scalp, tangled with a corkscrew of twisted hair. The whoosh of blood pulsing through his head inundates everything else, and it’s the only peace he gets that day.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>In a show of weakness, he asks Wilbur to stay with him that evening. It’s humiliating, and he’s got his sweater sleeves pulled down over his hands to hide their trembling when he pulls him aside to tell him. It’s either that or he doesn’t get a wink, so in context it’s the lesser of two evils. Regardless, it makes him feel small. Small and insignificant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Wilbur says nothing to make him feel self-conscious, slinking into the room after him once the alarm clock shows it’s past twelve. He doesn’t get under the covers, but is close enough for his body heat to seep through. George hates how he’s drawn to its magnetic pull, wanting something he’s not supposed to have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We could still go,” Wilbur whispers to him, barely audible over the crickets outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave here. Start new.” He thinks he feels a hand inching closer, but it never makes contact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t. This is my home, I can’t abandon it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not abandoning it. You’d be having a better life. That’s all anyone has ever wanted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to stay here. That’s what I’m going to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you really think anyone is going to come back for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George doesn’t answer the question, smothering himself with his pillow. Wilbur gives up, audibly turning on his side so that they’re back-to-back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George just needs to listen to the sound of him breathing, to know someone else is alive and with him. He can deal with the rest of the pain tomorrow.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>More lockdown measures are going into place, along with initiatives to sniff out the underground movements giving them firepower. It’s the last-ditch effort to hold power, now that the thinning crew of municipal and federal staff know there are more than a few concealed daggers ready to meet skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next day, it’s pouring rain out. Over the sound of the wind throwing itself onto his roof, smashing bullets of water into the upper story windows, Wilbur asks to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s probably people looking for me. I should be going back,” he says, as if that makes it any less ludicrous. As if George’s throat doesn’t close up and deny him the ability to breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be soaked if you go out now.” He gestures at the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hasn’t stopped me before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about your leg?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t make it far. At least let me help you get where you’re going.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s hard to stick to his principles when he’s scrambling, knowing he’s at the end of this particular leg of the journey but not being ready to say goodbye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur knows it too. “Thanks, but you don’t want to. It’s best I do this alone anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every excuse in the book is flung at him, to no avail. Wilbur is much too stubborn to even consider how dangerous it is. George has to walk away to keep from shouting at him in anger, knowing it would only make things much worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a haste, he tears apart the closet by the doorway, throwing jackets over his shoulder. He makes a small pile of layers that are dumped onto Wilbur as he slips into his shoes for the first time in weeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here. At least be warm while you’re at it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur inspects the tag in the top jacket’s collar. It’s initialled with a letter that isn’t ‘G.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those are my Dad’s,” George explains. “They still might be a bit small on you, but it’s better than nothing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been saving them, hoping they would be reclaimed. These days, it doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t take them.” He shoves them at George, who shakes his head in refusal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to need them, you may as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s trying so hard not to make it awkward. It’s not mutual. Wilbur doesn’t say anything to pick up where he left off, placing the jackets beside him on the ottoman where they drape over the edge, the long sleeves touching the ground. He stands to full height, using the wall to brace himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans in, which George assumes is to hug him. He’s got one arm around Wilbur’s waist when he feels the hand grabbing him by the hair at the back of his head. It takes his brain a second to catch up and realize that he’s being kissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s short, little more than a peck. By the time he’s realized it’s happened, it’s over. His lips tingle with feeling, colour rising to his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur looks as blasé as ever. “It’s not too late to come with me,” he whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” he says, pulling George in close for the hug that he was originally going for. “You’re one of the good ones.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to say something, like they could make it work. He doesn’t want to be alone, and that’s warmed him to his presence. Wilbur gives him a purpose, even if that purpose is to be a listening ear to talk to so that he doesn’t succumb to the hopelessness of his injuries. He doesn’t have to leave; George can be enough for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s out the door before George remembers that he could have grabbed him. He watches Wilbur disappear, then slams the door as hard as he can.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The next day, George cuts himself shaving. He has to sit on the edge of the sink, pressing a warm washcloth to his face for about five minutes. It feels like penance for something he did. In anger, the razor is thrown to the ground. A big potential stepping hazard, but he doesn’t care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hot tears well up, and he berates himself for being an emotional child. People come, people go. No one sticks around for long. He can’t believe he deluded himself into thinking there would be a different outcome.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Days later, the city falls. It’s no surprise. They were on their last legs. Not even the government sees them as people worth saving, giving them into the loving embrace of the invaders and fleeing out west. The officials that are caught are made examples of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one truly believed they would be saved. Anyone that said so was deceiving themselves to find a reason to keep going. The muted panic that ensues after the announcement is aired is half of what it was when all this started. All that yelling and screaming made the people lose their voices. They offer nothing more than a whimper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Food supplies and medicine aren’t guaranteed under this new rule. There might be nothing but a wasteland left behind in the coming weeks. By then, they’ll be nothing but bones. Or, it could be even better than before. That’s what they’re promised. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a good thing,</span>
  </em>
  <span> they had said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re cleaning out the filth. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It's said by people with egos twice their size, pushing people to their knees for the sake of it--some dumb power-trip, evolved into a crisis. The thought of ordinary people like Wilbur at the head of it makes him sick to his stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>George turns the television off, before realizing how quiet it is without it. The coffee beside him, made out of habit, steadily grows colder.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to help the displaced people wandering around without purpose, as if that will somehow bring Wilbur back to him. Many of them are part of the newer counter-resistance, formed by the discarded and the weary: people who blame the smoke and ashes on the rebels that trampled their life to the ground. They come to his door hoping for his allegiance.</span>
</p><p><span>The ease at which he lets them in makes them uncomfortable. He sees the accusation flash in their eyes. Sympathizer. Scum.</span> <span>If they had any proof, they would kill him. His biggest regret is also what saves him: he never kept anything of Wilbur’s.</span></p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Counterattacks raze the city. Passage over the canal’s bridge is made impossible, and the few routes of access left are a target for activity of all sorts. He only leaves the house for food, aware that anything more than that adds exponential growth to the chances he’s hurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a while, he manages. With a stomach full of lead, he braves his way into the city district, through the security checks, and makes it home with an ache in his back from lugging the heavy bags with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s never going to keep him safe enough, and he knows that. Maybe that’s why he lets his guard down, and goes out one day despite the premonition of imminent disaster biting at the edge of his mind. He locked the gate and continued on his way, oblivious to the wind trying to hold him back and the warnings barked out by the claps of thunder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It ends with him being blown back by one demonstration, awakening from a momentary lapse of consciousness with a constellation of new cuts and bruises and a striking pain in his thigh. Body going into immediate shock, he spends the first minute trying to press down on the impact site, unable to reason with a plan when his hands are sticking together with red that should be inside him. He can’t hear the sounds coming out of his mouth but he knows they must be ugly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he stays there, he will die. Mugged, most likely, but that can be fatal when it means tying up loose ends. It’s not like some otherworldly being will help him to his feet and ensure his safe return. It’s all on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spits out the blood from his gums and turns onto his stomach, bending his arms to lift himself up. The stench of the trash heap to his right makes his whole face scrunch up. He has to get away from here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One step at a time, he tells himself. Where the shrapnel is embedded, a pain spreads outward. He’s in excruciating pain with every twist of his hips, one thigh burning. It’s a hot brand under his skin, wriggling around. His vision is a bunch of shrieking shapes, sounds of every colour quickly filling in the blanks. His whole body is on fire. He can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> the blood escaping out of him, compounded by the utter helplessness of his arms refusing to cooperate. The adrenaline is trying to kick in and help him but it does nothing to alleviate any of the pain, only further contributing to his lack of coordination. Hot saliva sprays out of his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Keep walking, he says verbatim. He uses it to remind himself when the pain begins to accumulate and tempt him to stop and rest. He needs to get home. He needs to keep walking. He can lie down in bed. He can sleep there. It will be much more comfortable than a ditch on the side of a road.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One step. Another. The hills are the worst. Lifting his knee up makes his teeth clench together so hard that the whole jaw hurts. The stitch in his gut is trying to burn a hole through him and he wonders, briefly, if all of this is worth it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, he gets home before he has to answer that question.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember making it to the bedroom, but that’s where he wakes up. All sense of time is lost and he couldn’t say if it’s been a few hours or a few days. It seems the house’s power got knocked out by the blast, so his alarm can’t be used for recalibration. His internal clock tries to make sense of the light emitted from the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smacks his lips, wishing he had the foresight to get himself a glass of water before he committed himself to bed. There’s an overwhelming thirst that’s sucked all of the moisture out of his body. His tongue sits dead in his mouth like a beached whale; one of many muscles in his body that he can’t move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Consciousness is indistinguishable from the lucid dreams. Even with his eyes closed, he sees the wisps of smoke curling out from the ground, he smells the paper and upholstery burning in the back of his throat and knows the world is dying around him. He’s dying with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s so cold. One of his blankets got kicked off, the other twisted into configurations so advanced that he can’t find the right end when he fumbles around with his hand looking. Both feet are shoved under it, as if it will make a difference when they’re so frigid that the toes are stuck together. Clothing is too hard to put on, too much work to poke his arms through the holes, which feel like the eye of a needle. Whatever he manages to yank out of his drawer is thrown on top of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spends God knows how long there, trying to put a name to the hallucinations he sees. He thinks there are familiar faces in the blur. Family, perhaps. It’s been so long that his memory can’t conjure an accurate representation of what they look like. Their face arrangements are samples from people he’s seen: the long fingers of the cashier at the grocery store with the crooked nametag that couldn’t have been older than fifteen, the brown hair of the crossing guard that stood her post at the intersection even when school’s been out since the unofficial war began, the dark brown eyes of the man sitting across the table from him, who was always trying to figure him out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The front door whines from downstairs, grooming the doormat as it swings open. George cants his head to the side to hear it better, knowing the sound even in his sleep. The empty house enunciates the stomp of the boots, moving deeper into the living room. It sounds too real to be something his addled mind came up with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pillagers have been born out of a desperate need to survive. If he was bombed out of a home and saw what looked like an abandoned house to raid, it would be as appealing as a full course meal, and maybe with some of the spoils of it too. It’s been a long time since the house held anything more valuable than canned beans and bags of rice, which are worth their weight in gold these days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those thoughts should arouse hunger. His stomach doesn’t even murmur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes they leave something behind. If he has the strength to get up tomorrow, he needs to eat. Can’t remember the last time he’s eaten. His body stopped reminding him a long time ago, constricting his blood vessels to try and get oxygen to the parts that need it. So long as it keeps doing that, he’s alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Up the stairs, he hears thumping. The volume surges, the vibrations travelling through the floor and shaking the bed. He rearranges himself with subtle turns, intent on not seeing them in the doorway when it opens. He refuses to see the rabid look in their eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They push his door open with one strong push. George tries to reconcile with the fact he might not make it. He won’t be able to lift his arms to shield his face and neck if they attack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, they speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-rge.” None of the words’ sharp corners are pronounced; he can’t distinguish any of them, not until the person moves closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mattress squeaks when they place their hand down. It outlines the shape of his legs as it moves up to his waist, stopping at his mid-thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“George,” they repeat, close enough for George to make it out. It’s his name. They know him. If only his eyes weren’t lidded with his low blood pressure, he would see their face. “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hurt…” he croaks, the words blistering as they drag up and out of his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They shot you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks in rapid succession, trying to pull the world into focus. He’s heard them before. Doesn’t know when, or how. It’s male. Deep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“George.” The hand that rests on his shoulder could fold tissue paper into origami, it’s so gentle. “George, it’s Wilbur. You remember me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur. He was thinking about him just the other day, wondering if he survived. This answers that question. He finally feels warm with accomplishment. At least someone got out. He pries his eyes open, aching to see him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks different in his earth-tones and ratty layers of clothing. There’s evidence of a struggle in the loose threads and stains which he wears like a badge of honour. George nods at him once he finishes observing, unable to shape his mouth to make words. He’s still processing that Wilbur is </span>
  <em>
    <span>here,</span>
  </em>
  <span> not just a figment of his imagination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Wilbur sighs in relief. “Okay. Wait here. I’m going to get you some stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not like he can do much else but wait. It might be a while until he returns. The medicine cabinet is empty. Kitchen, bathroom, all of it’s empty. It’s funny, really. Most of it went toward patching up Wilbur. He didn’t replenish his supplies because it made no sense to. He didn’t see himself walking into an ambush. He assumed that if he did, he wouldn’t come out of it alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swinging in and out of awareness, he forgets that Wilbur is in the house until something cold and slimy winds around the side of his thigh. Sensation rushes through his body, making his hips buck. Wilbur shushes him, pushing him down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cranes his head to try and see what’s on his leg but Wilbur’s torso blocks everything. His head falls back on the pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’re you doin’?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m returning the favour. Just relax.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t. Wilbur is here. There are things that have to be said which can’t if he’s passed out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels the pad of Wilbur’s thumb swipe across his chin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your lips are so blue…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur retrieves the heap of blankets from the floor, covering every inch of skin he’s not working with. George loses sight of him for a moment, swathed in its comforting hold. It’s what he needs, but not what he wants. The hand on his thigh is the intimacy that he craves more than anything else. It’s counterintuitive, but he pushes his head out from under the mound of cotton just so he won’t lose sight of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You surprised to see me?” Wilbur asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he mumbles, looking at Wilbur for as long as it takes to convince himself that this is real. Someone came back for him. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’re you ‘ere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I wasn’t going to leave you behind,” he says, very matter-of-factly. As if it was obvious. As if George didn’t stare at the door for days, wondering if the last time he ever saw him would be through a sheet of rain, draped in old clothes from the attic and disguised by the cover of the mist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur is doing the best he can with what he has but his inexperience is obvious: he’s moving so slow. George wills him to finish cleaning the wound and to leave it alone, his relief obvious when he hears the snip of scissors and the snug fit around the impacted area. But he can hardly complain; he wouldn’t have been able to do much better in his condition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur gets as much water in him as he can, but it’s still a shock to his system. It’s cold enough to hit his stomach like a punch to the gut, but he’s so thirsty that he gulps most of it down the second the glass is pushed up on his bottom lip. With the awareness of someone there caring for him comes the revival of other, unpleasant systems. The dull pain in his thigh begins to throb. The muscles of his stomach contract hard enough to make him nauseous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur uses his hand to lower the back of George’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does that feel alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans into the hand in his hair, nodding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you here to stay?” George whispers, hopeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur sighs. “No. This is just a quick stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sensing his displeasure, Wilbur is quick to reassure him. “It’s okay. I’m not leaving you.” He moves closer, breath hot on his ear. “We’ve got doctors, people who can help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It tears the calm of the moment open. Wilbur, who was always so vehemently against medical attention, wouldn’t be bringing him to a hospital. He knows that realization has made his whole body tense up, and that Wilbur sees it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s trying to back up. “I can’t help you myself; I don’t know how. I’m going to take you back with me though, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George shakes his head, trying to grab onto the sheets for purchase. The wrinkles slip through the gaps of his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you don’t want to go. I know. But I’m not leaving you here.” A hand slides under George’s neck, another under his knees. One or two feeble kicks makes no difference. Air rushes up from under him, the blankets sliding off of his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wilbur…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll die if you don’t get help soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I can’t.” He weakly pushes at his shoulder, but can’t even make it roll back. Even if he was at full strength, Wilbur would be too capable an opponent to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s held close, like something precious that might be taken away. The same care is extended to taking George down the stairs, Wilbur pivoting his body diagonally so that George’s feet don’t knock into the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rain dots his forehead when they exit. He squints his eyes in the light of day. It’s been so long since he sucked down fresh air. It suspiciously doesn’t behave like oxygen, not giving him the feeling of replenishment as it should.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him a second to realize that there are other people outside: blackened shapes that creep around them, dressed in similar attire to Wilbur but without the familiar face to make him associate them with anything other than scorched earth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that photo boy?” one of them asks, his voice nasally and opinionated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George’s eyes try to crank open. Him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur looks down at him, as if to remind himself. “Yeah. Take what you need to and meet me up ahead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George can’t get a good look at them, and if his attention wasn’t already divided as is he would try to twist his body to see what they’re doing. The prayer he says is more for the house than for him; he hopes they leave something to remember him by. Wilbur is moving on so he can’t watch, ripping him away from all he’s known.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry, George,” he says to him, his tone purposefully light. This is a sensitive operation, and it’s going to leave a few scars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should have left me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought about it. Then I thought I could try one last time. I’m sorry for breaking in. I just got worried when you didn’t come to the door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Try</span>
  </em>
  <span> is an ambiguous word. He brought a small army with him, something that he probably wants George to forget. Whether it was the power of persuasion or force he wanted to use, it was far from an individual effort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lacks the energy to make two fists to fight Wilbur with. Head lolling back, he tries to commit what he sees to memory, hoping to use the passing lamp posts as breadcrumbs all while knowing it’s useless. He’s not going to find his way home this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that realization, everything else melts away.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Light is streaming in from behind the blinds. It’s an intrusive yellow colour, anything but natural. The sight of it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand. There are a lot of cars and noise, feedback he wasn’t used to hearing at home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could run out the back door. If he leapt the fence and kept running, they might not know he’s escaped before they’ve searched the whole house. He could find better cover, maybe even stumble onto a group of survivors if he’s lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wishful thinking. He’d be dead before he even made it that far. With no advance preparations to weather the terrain, starvation would be just as deadly as any bullet. Besides, he wouldn’t get far on this leg. He finally knows how Wilbur feels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets two meals a day from the rebel group (if he can even call them that now), which is better than five gunshots in his back or a slow death next to a landline that would never be used. He doesn’t know where he’s being taken. Whether he’s still in town or on the periphery, no one says. No maps or compasses are accessible, just the conglomerate of faces he doesn’t know and the occasional appearance of Wilbur, who’s since stepped out of his ratty garments and into something a lot easier on the eyes. Dare he say, he looks like someone in charge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>George too has changed. He’s been stripped out of the wet clothes, replaced with loose-fitting items and two blankets woven around his shoulders like a shawl. While there’s still the possibility of bleeding through his clothes, he’s not given anything but hand-me-downs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looks and feels like a sick joke the universe is playing on him. Wilbur is all too aware of the reversal of the power dynamics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not giving up on you, okay?” he had told George, when he had given him the first hot meal he’d had in days as the first of many apologies. The bowl of hot soup had warmed him, which was something he needed more than food in his stomach. It was something he now refused to get from Wilbur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But despite the raw feeling of betrayal, he couldn’t completely close that door. It made him stop and wonder if he was wanting the wrong things: waiting for things to get better when they never world, looking for people that would never come back, holding out on a promise that he valued more than others did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least Wilbur cared enough to take him away. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Is Wilbur a good or a bad person? Was he doing it for himself or for George? Who knows! All the same, I hope you enjoyed it.<br/>I read and respond to all my comments, so do let me know your thoughts if you want to. A major thanks to everyone who supported me and my last fic for them, as well as those who recommended my story on other sites. It means the world, truly. I take constructive criticism and also any helpful info, so if you see any glaring errors do let me know.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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